Time Is Only An Illusion Produced By The Succession Of Our States Of Consciousness As We Travel Through Eternal Duration, And It Does Not Exist Where No Consciousness Exists In Which The Illusion Can Be Produced; But "lies Asleep."
There Is A Poetry In Making Preserves; The Housewife Has Caught Duration In The Snare Of Sugar, She Has Enclosed Life In Jars.
Everything Is Banal In Experience, Fleeting In Duration, Sordid In Content; In All Respects The Same Today As Generations Now Dead And Buried Have Found It To Be.
I Do Not Work Within The Confines Of Any Realm. I Work In The Unique Moment Of Duration.
